Whisper Above the Thunder
by TheHalfBloodConsultingHunter
Summary: Part One in my Starry Night Series: After a mindless fight leads to a drunken misunderstanding, John is left broken and scarred and Sherlock is left to help him pick up the pieces, proving that John will always be his top priority. [Rated M for a reason] [Possible triggers]
1. To the Sky

_Note: This fic is a Work in Progress and while I have the entire thing written out in my head, typing it out will take some time (especially with my rehearsal schedule) so do not hesitate to bother me for updates and such, as it will motivate me to get it done. I have no idea exactly how long it's going to be and while I have an outline of events be sure to comment with some of your own ideas and I might just use them!_

_Trigger warning for non-graphic rape as well as a billion pounds of angst everywhere you turn. _

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**Chapter One: To the Sky**

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John couldn't breathe. The weight that had been crushing his chest left abruptly, but his lungs still felt as though they were folding into themselves and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. Though, compared to everything else he was feeling right now, it wasn't too bad. He didn't know where he was. Didn't want to know where he was. All he knew was that he wanted to leave. To get out of there as soon as he could and try with everything inside of him to forget about what had just happened. He didn't want to remember.

He heard a door slam shut and after straining his ears for a few moments, he could identify a shower being turned on. His heart lurched in his chest. Though he knew he was alone, he kept his eyes squeezed shut, a part of him still holding on to the thin hope that this could all be some dream. Some sick, terrifying, alcohol-induced nightmare that he would wake up from soon. There had been a few tears clinging to the edges of his eyes and he felt them finally fall, tracing a path down his cheeks that had already been covered.

He focused on the feeling of the tear sliding down his face as he tried to calm his breathing. It worked, but when he was no longer focused on his lungs, the reality of the rest of his pain had room to kick in and the only thought he had was that _everything hurt._ His shoulderblades and lower back from being pushed around roughly; his torso from where he'd been used as some sort of ashtray; his hips from sharp nails digging into them hard enough to draw blood. A dull, constant ache in the front of his head reminded him of how his skull had been acquainted with the wall when he'd tried helplessly to fight back.

And his wrists. If John absolutely had to pick out what it was that hurt the most, his wrists would be at the top of that list. He could feel the blood trickling slowly down his arm as he realized that they were still tied above his head onto the headboard. It must have been an old, worn rope that had been used because after all the motion from earlier, it didn't take long for John to wiggle out of the bind.

He finally opened his eyes and slowly, carefully, risked sitting up. The shower was still going somewhere in a room away from him. He couldn't remember when it had started and he certainly had no idea whatsoever when it would end. Waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the dim lighting of the room, he carefully massaged the area around his reddened, raw wrists, trying to take inventory; to catalogue his injuries. Even now, John was still playing Doctor.

Sherlock would laugh at that, he thought. Or at least chuckle.

Thinking of Sherlock made him want to disappear into the rough sheets beneath him and never surface again. God, what was he going to do? What was he supposed to say? But first: How could he get out of here?

He didn't even know where _here_ was. His brain was fogged by the unbearable pain and the alcohol he had earlier consumed, the previous six scotches still having yet to wear off. A part of him supposed he deserved it- what should you expect after sharing a cab with a stranger whom you'd just met? And at a pub, no less. The logical part; the doctor part, tried to fight him on his logic. He had dealt with such cases before. How many times had he told people it wasn't their fault? However his current state screamed back at that part, and he was far too exhausted to argue.

So yes. This was all his fault.

His vision having finally cleared, he spotted his clothes thrown in a heap a few feet away. Only when he spotted them did he realized just how naked he was. He chanced moving again, his head swimming with stars the second he threw his legs over the side of the bed. He doubted his movements could be heard through walls and a running shower, but he wasn't risking anything. Walking slowly, partially to be quiet and partially because of the pain, he approached his clothes and stepped into his jeans, silently thanking whatever God there may be that his phone was still sitting in the bottom of his pocket.

He raised his arms carefully, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath when doing so stretched the still fresh burns that peppered his torso. The feeling was made worse by the light fabric of his shirt smothering them but it was a dull pain he could attempt to ignore. At least for now.

Looking around, he couldn't spot his jacket or shoes anywhere and wasn't very fond of the idea to stay and search. He didn't want to be here any longer than he had to be.

He found the door and opened it, quietly slipping out just as he thought he heard the shower switching off. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him he ran as fast as he could. As fast as the fire searing through his veins would allow him to. And he didn't stop. The adrenaline in his system overrode the alcohol and kept him on his feet as he bolted down three flights of stairs and through the streets. He ran and ran and didn't know where the hell he was going and didn't care, really, just as long as it was far away from there.

He ran until he physically couldn't any longer. Until the adrenaline boost wore off and his head was disagreeing fiercely and he had to stop. Breathing heavily, he leaned against a slick streetlamp, just now noticing that it was raining. Hard. The world around him was dark. Quiet. Calm. No one even acutely aware of what had just happened not too long ago. He stood for a moment or two longer before he knees finally gave out and he slid down, back against the pole.

He was soaked in sweat and rain and his shirt clung to every part of his body, making his burns sting even more than they already were. Some part of his brain was still thinking logically, and it was this part that took over. John didn't even register his hands reaching in his pockets, searching for his phone. He looked at his screen without really seeing, dialing the memorized number on autopilot, silently willing the line not to go dead. Sherlock's voice came on after a few very long seconds, sharp and alert. Hearing it made John want to sob- with relief, guilt or just plain hurt, he didn't know. He managed to get some words out; answer a few necessary questions.

But Sherlock's voice was so soothing and it was dark and cold and he was hurting and he just wanted the pain to stop- at least for a little bit he wanted it all to stop. And his head was screaming and buzzing and his chest was on fire and the blood from his wrists was mixing with the rain and all he wanted to do was sleep. Just curl into himself and sleep so that when he awoke, he would be in his bed and the entire night would prove to have been just another nightmare.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't worried: why would he be? Worry was simplistic and mundane and just plain useless. Anyway, he knew where John was so there was no need to be worried. Except that even when they had a particularly bad fight, John was always home by two. He tried to brush it off; John was a full grown man, afterall and therefore allowed to stay out as long as he damn well pleased.

But, just to be safe, Sherlock had called Richie to have him keep an eye on him. When he called, however, he learned that John had left the pub almost an hour before. Sherlock didn't hold back as he chewed Richie out for letting John leave alone(he'd had quite a good amount to drink, according to the bartender). Sherlock hung up and did a quick search in his mind, trying to figure out where John could have gotten in an hour. Where would he want to go so late at night?

He rolled his eyes at himself in annoyance. He was being ridiculous. Possessive. Wasn't that the reason for their earlier fight, anyway? The reason John was gone so late at night, instead of here in the flat with Sherlock? He typed out a quick text anyway, letting the doctor know he could come back home now and that, really, wasn't he being just a bit ridiculous?

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep until John was with him, he abandoned the experiment he'd been trying to do and moved to his violin just as rain started falling lightly.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock almost didn't hear his phone going off over the music that was still erupting from the instrument in his hands. He threw it haphazardly into John's chair and lunged for his phone that was still lying on the kitchen countertop. Seeing John's name on the caller ID he answered immediately.

"John." Part of him, though he would never verbally admit it, was relieved. It was almost four am, and John had never been out that long. Sherlock had room to worry. But now that John was calling him, and he knew that he was safe... he was better. He listened closely, waiting for John to reply. The sound of the rain was definite on John's end. So John was outside, then?

"John, are you there?"

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I-" whatever John was going to say was interrupted by a strangled sob escaping his throat. He sounded... Sherlock couldn't even identify it. He sounded not like John and it made his heart pound faster with worry. He listened as John started mumbling incoherent things, trying to pick out useful information but he got nothing. Nothing. A bubble of frustration threatened to burst within him but he had to stay calm. At least until he got to John.

He worked on getting his coat and shoes on and then hailing a cab while trying to calm John down long enough to talk to him. "John, listen to me... John... I need you to tell me where you are... I know, John but I need to know... Okay, then look around- what's there? Street signs, building numbers, anything... Good. Okay. I'm on my way now."

John's words became more mumbled and a bit slurred in a way that didn't sound alcohol induced. A way that genuinely worried him. "John I need you to keep talking to me... No, stay on the phone... I know but you have to stay awake for a bit longer, John... I'm on my way now..." he yelled at the cabbie to go faster- screw the wet roads, he needs to get to John now. He kept talking, repeating himself, trying to keep John awake at least until he wasn't alone anymore. The line went quiet for a moment and Sherlock froze until John mumbled something again. As they pulled onto the assumed street, Sherlock looked around anxiously, trying to spot John through the darkness; the rain had subsided into a light sort of mist, but it didn't make seeing him any easier. He ordered the cabbie to slow down so that he could see better but didn't actually see John until they were about five feet away from him.

Screaming at the now annoyed cabbie to stop, Sherlock hopped out of the car before it had completely halted, rushing over to John's side. John was soaking wet and freezing cold. Sherlock tried to figure out just how long his doctor had been sitting out here but with no luck. As soon as he saw John he stopped, his heart lurching uncomfortably within his chest. The first thing he noticed was the cut peaking out from John's hairline. It was relatively deep, but had stopped bleeding at least half an hour ago. Despite the rain, there was dried blood both in John's hair and speckled about his face. Before Sherlock could check for any other injuries, he saw just how bad John was shaking. Putting a hand tentatively to John's cheek, Sherlock tried to turn his head; get John to look at him.

John flinched violently at the touch and Sherlock had to tell himself not to be hurt by the reaction. "John, it's just me." he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. John peered at him wearily through the corner of his eye, but still wouldn't look at him. Sherlock needed to get him out of the rain and inside so that he could warm up, but it was going to be impossible if he wasn't allowed to even touch him and, by the looks of him, there was no way he'd be able to stand on his own.

Headlights illuminated the space around them and Sherlock squinted to see who it was that was pulling over to obviously try and talk to them. As the figure came into focus, Sherlock sighed. "Prying again, are we?" his words held none of their usual bite. He was too distracted by John to be annoyed at Mycroft right now. He would make up for it later.

"Hardly. The hospital has been called and they are awaiting Dr. Watson's arrival. I assumed you would like a more... private method of transportation." Mycroft indicated the cab still waiting a little ways down the street from where he was currently crouched.

"Hospital?" Sherlock asked, confused and a bit frustrated. John was hurt, yes, but he didn't want him in the hospital. He wanted him back at Baker Street in their bed wrapped in his arms.

"Look at the state of him, Sherlock. There's no way you can treat him on your own at home. Besides, I suspect the doctors will want to run an exam and collect all the evidence they need." Confused, Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, too distracted to ask what Mycroft meant by needing evidence.

"John, can you stand?" despite his nod, Sherlock didn't believe he could. He looked so weak, so exhausted, Sherlock was afraid he would pass out right then and there. He let his hand linger just beneath John's elbow as John attempted to stand, leaning slightly on Sherlock as he did so. Once he was straight, his knees almost buckled beneath him again. Sherlock grabbed him before he could fall, his hand on John's upper left arm while the other grabbed his right wrist. John cried out in pain; the sound loud and heart wrenching before it became muffled. John had buried his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing shallowly.

"It's okay, John. It's just a few steps. The car's right here." Again, John nodded. Sherlock loosened his grip only slightly as they made their way slowly to the sleek black car parked three and a half feet away from them. Normally, Sherlock would be able to cover the distance in two and a half easy strides. But John was apparently injured in more places than just his head, resulting in him walking slowly and carefully. The process was made even shorter by the wet ground Sherlock was afraid John would slip on.

Finally, they were to the car. It opened and Sherlock carefully tucked John inside, not missing how John winced and cringed multiple times during the process. It wasnt until they were both within the sanctuary that Sherlock started breathing somewhat normally. He shrugged out of his coat, wrapped it around John's frame and pulled him close to his chest, holding him gently as sobs and chills shook his body.

Sherlock had a million questions. What had happened? Who did it? Where the hell were they now? How long had John been sitting alone in the cold? How bad, exactly were his injuries? But he couldnt ask them right now. Right now, John needed attention that he couldn't give. He wasn't sure if he should let John slip into sleep- weren't you supposed to stay awake after receiving a head wound until you knew just how bad it was?

John curled even farther into Sherlock, as though trying to disappear within the folds of his clothes. Sherlock's first instinct was to cling to John tighter but he restrained, weary of John's injuries. He settled for bringing a hand to the base of his neck, twisting his fingers lightly through the hair there, trying to provide comfort in the little ways he knew how.

Too long of a time had passed before they finally pulled up outside the hospital. Sherlock kept John in his arms as he maneuvered them out of the car. It was complicated, but he managed to do it without jolting John too much. He shifted him slightly in his arms so that he could walk easier, and leaned down to speak directly into John's ear. "We're getting ready to enter the hospital, John, okay? It'll get a bit noisy but you'll be okay." He figured commentating everything that was going on would help John to stay calm. He hoped it would, anyway.

As he started walking toward the front doors, Mycroft's car pulled behind them. As previously stated, there were a few nurses waiting for them when he walked through the doorway. They were prepared with a wheelchair for John to sit in but Sherlock wasn't so sure he wanted to set John down. Honestly, he didn't even want to be here right now. But it was what John needed at the moment, and so reluctantly, carefully, he placed John in the chair.

John was already half asleep, but as soon as he was out of Sherlock's arms, he opened his eyes. They were unfocused and darted back and forth. When one of the nurses tried to reposition the jacket still draped around John's shoulder, the weakened mad flinched at the unfamiliar contact, retracting away from it as much as possible.

John's eyes were still darting back and forth between everyone around him before finally landing on Sherlock's locking with them for a long moment. Sherlock wished he hadn't. John's eyes were dark and empty. Haunted. Frightened. They pleaded with Sherlock and the detective could tell John wanted to be here as much as he did. John was begging him to go home. The look made Sherlock's heart sink. Whatever happened had been more than just a bar fight, like Sherlock had earlier expected.

The nurses were trying to talk to John as they walked down the hall, but John didn't answer any questions. Not even with the suggested nod or shake of the head. His eyes stayed locked on Sherlock and now that Sherlock was looking at John head on with proper lighting... God everything was so much worse than he'd expected. There was the cut at the base of his hairline and his left cheek was swollen and bruised. The white t-shirt he was wearing was useless at hiding any other injuries, the fabric practically transparent now that it was soaked.

He could just make out the beginnings of bruises forming on John's back as well as unusual markings scattered across his chest. A closer look had Sherlock suspecting the were cigarette burns. At the thought, white hot rage rushed through his veins, threatening to take over the facade he'd been keeping up so far. His eyes strayed to the markings on John's wrists and he didn't need to think twice of fully analyze them to know immediately what they were. Rope burns. John had been tied up and fighting but it had been no use. His attacker had won and John had multiple scars to remind him of it.

And now the brokenness made sense. The hollow look in John's eyes. The pain in fear that laced his face. It all made sense, clicking together like a puzzle and Sherlock had to physically fight the feeling that was rushing through him now. He could hear the blood in his ears and now knew what others meant when they said they were seeing red. He was nauseous, but he bit it back, seeing John's expression get even more terrified (was that even possible?) as they neared their destination brought Sherlock out of his stupor temporarily.

He didn't realize John had been clutching his hand until John's gripped tightened even more, his knuckles white and him hands still shaking. "Sherlock-" John choked out his name and the detective knew immediately that John didn't want to go in alone. But Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to go in. He didn't want to know the details didn't want to face the reality of the situation they were currently in. But he was going to. He was going to go in there and listen and bear it because thats what John needed.

He looked to one of the nurses for confirmation, even though he wouldn't listen to them if he refused, anyway. The one; a petite, round faced woman with mousy dark hair nodded yes and Sherlock turned back to John. Returning the pressure on his hand lightly, he pressed a small, tentative kiss to John's uninjured temple. "You'll be okay," he whispered against John's cold skin. "It'll all be okay."

He continued on into the room with them as Mycroft retreated to, presumably go talk to one of the doctors. Probably ordering they get the best one in the place. There would also be press to control. If any of this got leaked there would no doubt be a frenzy of media surrounding them. And Sherlock made a mental note to call Lestrade as soon as time would permit. They were going to find the bastard that did this and Sherlock was going to give him hell.

But right now, John needed him. John needed him more than ever and a part of Sherlock marveled at how drastically the roles in their relationship were reversed right now. And so Sherlock entered the room full of white and smelling of rubbing alcohol and he sat with John, preparing himself for what was to come, knowing everything was only going to get worse but still praying that it didn't.


	2. Silhouette

Note: _Here, on Tumblr and on AO3, people have pointed a few things out to me so I guess now is as good a time as any for a disclaimer so: I have absolutely no idea how things like this are dealt with at hospitals and such; I only know what I learn through vague research and watching every season of SVU._

_Also, reading through the last chapter, I noticed a few grammatical errors that I'll have to fix when I get the time. I tried really scanning this one through but I still could have missed some. _

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Chapter Summary: _Mycroft makes a promise to himself and Sherlock gets a feel for just how much everything has changed in the last few hours._

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**Chapter Two: Silhouette**

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John refused to let anyone touch him. Every time someone did, he ended up jerking away forcefully, resulting in him causing himself more pain. Sherlock stayed away for the first few moments, as instructed, but when it became clear that John had no desire to let anyone near him, Sherlock asked the nurses to leave the room for a moment and, to his surprise, they agreed.

"John," Sherlock started, taking a seat awkwardly next to him, the paper covering the vinyl crinkling beneath him as he did so. He wasn't entirely sure what to say here. The examination needed to be done. The faster it got done and over with, the quicker they could get back home. But John wasn't thinking logically. All he was thinking about was how everyone's hands reminded him of only one person. All he was thinking about was earlier .

"I can't do this." John whispered brokenly, saving Sherlock from having to continue his thought. "I just wanna go home."

Sherlock took a deep breath; closed his eyes. "I know you do, John. I know. But we have to do this first. We have to get through this so we know just how much damage has been done so they can treat you properly." John nodded. Or course he knew that. It was protocol, whether he liked it or not and the doctor within him was trying to make him appreciate the fact that the people treating him knew what they were doing. He told that part to shut up, though because he didn't care about protocol and specifics. He just wanted to go home.

"I know you're scared." Sherlock pointed out as John rested his head against his shoulder. "But it's all going to be okay. They're trained professionals; they know what they're doing. I'll be right here with you and it will be over before you know it." John tensed and Sherlock thought for a second. Maybe that was it. Maybe John didn't want him in the room with him. Maybe John didn't want him to know the details, see the injuries... "Unless you don't want me to. I can stand right outside the do-"

"No!" John took Sherlock's hand in his and held onto it tightly. "Don't leave me alone, please" he sounded terrified; as though Sherlock had been talking about traveling half-way across the world and staying for months. Sherlock snaked an arm around John's shoulders carefully.

"It's okay." he soothed, his fingers twirling through the hair at his neck again. "I'm not going anywhere. It'll all be okay." John nodded against Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock could feel a few hot tears start to soak into his shirt.

Giving John a few more minutes to prepare for what was about to come, Sherlock sat in silence. John sat up, avoiding Sherlock's gaze, he let out a shaky breath and gave a slight, almost invisible nod. Sherlock reached over and pressed the call button on the wall. The three nurses returned thirty seconds later. They asked John simple questions and walked him through the process of what they would be doing.

"We're going to tell you before we do anything, okay? As long as you cooperate, it'll be done almost as soon as it started." That was a lie. The would have to take their time carefully documenting every injury; every bruise and spot on John's body before they were finally finished and Sherlock knew that no matter how long it took them to do it, the process would feel even longer to John. It was the mousy nurse who had said this and Sherlock immediately didn't like her. She was young. Far too young for this field of work. He would have questioned her qualifications, but this was about John. John needed his attention.

He could tell John was fighting sleep pretty hard. It had been a long night, no doubt and the fact that he most likely had a concussion definitely wasn't helping that. He could also tell that the only thing keeping John from closing his eyes was the monster etched into the back of them.

John had undressed earlier, the nurses wanting to get him out of his cold, contaminated clothes as soon as possible and he was now in a hospital gown that was a bit too big on him and made Sherlock internally cringe. It wasn't a good look on John. But then, he supposed, it probably wasn't a good look on anyone.

They asked John to lay back, and he complied without a word, though Sherlock saw his eyes scream in pain as his body weight was put on his bruised, battered back. He was still clutching Sherlock's hand but Sherlock barely noticed it anymore. He stood by John's head and held his hand, looking into John's eyes because he didn't know where else to look. John stared back, looking without really seeing. The process was long, despite the nurse's earlier statement. John was completely silent through it all, though more often than not, Sherlock saw him gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw to keep from crying out. There were a few times when John closed his eyes, his body stiffening and hand tightening around Sherlock's.

Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he went with doing what seemed the most logical. He bent his head, keeping it so close to John that their breath mixed when they exhaled. He spoke words of comfort into his ear softly. He suspected John wasn't really paying attention to them, but spoke anyway. Just in case. He supposed he should be paying attention to the comments the nurses were making, and on any other day, in any other case, he would have.

But this wasn't any other case with some stranger he would forget about a week later. This was John. And John needed him.

Then they were done with the major cataloging and needed to move on to John's back. Sherlock asked if it was really necessary and when the other nurse -a short haired, stout blonde- replied that it was he just told them to hurry up. It was almost five and he could tell John wanted to leave. Thinking about it now, John probably never wanted to come in the first place. Trying hard to be as patient as possible, he helped John sit up and then moved to stand in front of him, giving the nurses room to work. They stood behind John and carefully untied the first few ties of the hospital gown that was keeping them from seeing the injuries. Sherlock kept his eyes on John, not ready to see how bad they were. John tried to smile slightly as though trying to be amused, but it came out as more of a grimace that twisted in pain almost immediately when one of the nurses touched his left shoulder a bit too forcefully. He heard her mutter something that sounded too much like "dislocated shoulder" before moving on. They took pictures and Sherlock could hear the scraping of pencil against paper as they furiously took notes.

He knew a job like this had to be done carefully and thoroughly, but Sherlock just wished they would hurry up. By now, John looked as though he wasn't even aware of what was going on. His eyes were glazed over in a way that looked as though he'd zoned out; staring but unfocused. And then they were finally, finally done. They could go home now. Sherlock could get John home and in bed and then he could hunt down Lestrade and demand that John's attacker be murdered in the most cruel way possible.

Sherlock stepped out of the room first, closing the door lightly behind him. The nurses had some clothes that John could change into after he finished his shower. Now that that had done all the cataloging they needed to, John could finally wash every trace of the bastard off his skin. When the got home, he would change from the borrowed clothes into something more comfortable and familiar and then sleep.

He leaned against the doorframe, waiting. He figured now was as good a time as ever to try and contact Lestrade. Now that they would be leaving soon, Sherlock could devote some of his time to finding the bastard that put them here. He decided to call first, though he suspected the Inspector wouldn't answer so earlier in the morning. When his suspicions proved correct, he shot the man a quick text, hoping he would see how urgent it was.

A few more moments passed before Mycroft starting approaching him slowly. Hanging up his phone, he looked to Sherlock, expecting an update. "Well?" he asked, his eyebrows rising slightly.

Sherlock didn't look at his brother but found his mouth moving on its own, his brain apparently having absorbed the information without him paying attention. "He's not... critical. They're letting him go -not that I'd let them keep him here anyway. Bruises. Cuts. Scrapes. His head wound was deep enough to need a few stitches and give him a slight concussion. Wrists are bandaged up from the severity of the rope burns. Dislocated shoulder. His psyche has no doubt been wrecked as well."

Having seen something... uncharacteristic flash across Sherlock's face, Mycroft shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock's eyes darted to Mycroft's and stayed there, fixing him with a steely kind of glare that, for once, shut him up. He was silent for a moment, making sure to choose his words wisely before speaking again. "He's going to need help, Sherlock."

"He's got me." Sherlock snapped viciously, looking away again.

"You know what I mean. These things have the potential to be very traumatic. Hes going to need to talk to someone. A professional."

"We are not having this conversation right now. Mycroft, its been hours since it hapened, the last thing he is going to want to do is talk about it. Now, hes going to go home with me and sleep. Lord knows he needs it."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but at that moment the door behind them opened and John stepped out with the three nurses behind him. Sherlock immediately went to John, offering his arm as support. Seeing, or perhaps sensing, that they wouldn't get Sherlock's attention, the nurse turned to Mycroft to update him on things like medication before handing him some pamphlets that no doubt contained information on how to deal with a victim of tonights events and referred them to the "best of the best" for therapeutic help.

Sherlock led John out to the car as the exchange took place, knowing they weren't going to call anyone on that long list of names. He got John inside the car and closed the door, turning to see his brother behind him. "We'll talk later." Mycroft stated firmly, leaving no room for argument. Sherlock nodded and thought for a second, testing his next words out in his head first.

"Thank you." he said quietly, his voice sincere in every sense of the word. The mannerism sounded weird and misplaced coming from his brother's normally harsh tongue which is how Mycroft knew just how much Sherlock meant it. He's thanking me for showing up, Mycroft clarified to himself still struck by the words. For making him see sense.

Mycroft nodded, for once at a loss for words. "Take care of him." He stated, clearing his throat. The statement jerked him back to a while ago when he had told John the same thing. My, how the tables have turned.

"You know I will." Sherlock walked behind the car and opened the door, sliding gracefully inside before closing the door. Mycroft couldn't see anything within it, the black tinted windows blinding him from doing so. He watched it roll away before heading toward his own car, needing to finish necessary paperwork and contact people who could help.

He didn't doubt for one second that his brother would take care of John, but this was now a case and whether Sherlock liked it or not, Mycroft was getting involved.

* * *

When they had returned to the flat, Sherlock could tell all John was conflicted about going to sleep. On one hand, he was more than exhausted and hoped sleep would be a good method of escaping for a little while. On the other, though, he was afraid all he would see when he closed his eyes was a replay of the night's events. Events he didn't want to repeat. Sherlock was able to convince him to at least lay down, "Whether or not you actually sleep, you should at least lay down." He helped John change into his own clothes and into the bed before stating he'd be back in a few minutes. He headed to the kitchen to make a quick pot of tea, uneasy at leaving John alone even just for five minutes.

He returned to his room, where he'd put John so that he wouldn't have to climb another flight of stairs, and set John's tea on the bedside table before taking a seat in a chair next to the bed. They sat, silent, as John stared blankly out the window and Sherlock sipped lightly at his tea, more for something to do than to cure a thirst that wasn't there.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He could tell John wouldn't want to talk about what happened, but should he ask anyway just in case? Should he leave John alone to his thoughts? No. He wasn't going to do that unless John physically asked him to. He watched John for a few more moments before picking up a book he'd started readin a few days earlier. He figured he would read for a bit, try to kill some time. He glanced up at John every few paragraph's only to see that the doctor hadn't moved an inch.

"You should try to sleep." Sherlock said softly. He watched as John's stayed silent before registering that Sherlock had spoken. His eyes moved from the window and scanned Sherlock slowly before falling on his own clear eyes. He stared at him for a few moments, his blinks seeming to last longer than they normally would. Sherlock watched as John brought his bottom lip in between his teeth, chewing it nervously. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and immediately thought it would be Lestrade. He stood, "I'll leave you alone for a bit, okay?" I'll be right in the living room- call if you need anything."

John nodded and let his eyes wander back to the window, still silent.

Sherlock watched him for a few seconds before exiting the room. Closing the door softly behind him, he pulled out his phone and answered it. "What," Lestrade started before he could speak "on earth is so important that you need to call me at five in the morning, Sherlock? And then blow up my phone with texts every ten minutes afterward? You just had a case yesterday can you really not wait-"

"John's been attacked." his low voice was somehow heard by Lestrade even though the man had been near to yelling. He stopped abruptly.

"What?"

"Last night. He went out after we'd had a fight. Had some drinks. Left with someone and then... I don't know. he called me, I found him and we took him to the hospital. We just got back about an hour ago."

"How is he?"

"Physically? I guess it could be a lot worse. Mentally? I don't know. He's not talking to anyone but after the exam he had to go through it's highly understandable." Sherlock's voice was soft so that John wouldn't hear him and also because speaking the words again made him tired.

"When you say attacked, Sherlock, do you mean...?"

"Raped." the word tasted like poison on his tongue. It sounded displaced and lost coming from his voice and speaking the actual word for the first time that night made the reality of everything crash down on him at once. His throat suddenly felt tight and heavy. Fire prickled behind his eyes, threatening tears. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, counted to ten, trying to stay calm.

He heard the detective's sharp intake of breath on the other line. "Jesus, Sherlock. Who-?"

"I haven't asked and he hasn't said. I don't think he knows, or maybe he blocked it out. He seems to be in a sort of shock right now but that's why I called you. I need to find this bastard, Lestrade but I can't devote my full attention to a case and take care of John, too. I need your help." he supposed on a normal day he would feel embarrassed or ashamed to be asking for help with anything. But this wasn't a normal circumstance and the facts stood before him. John needed his help and his attacker needed to be found. Sherlock couldn't do it all. For what seemed like the millionth time hat day, Sherlock was reminded of just how much everyone 's place had changed. He was the one ordering John to sleep and seeking help on a case. He didn't know how that made him feel, if he felt anything.

"I'll try and see what we can do, Sherlock. Text me the name of the bar he was at and we'll start there. I'll come by later this afternoon so we can talk in person."

"Okay." Sherlock stated, nodding to himself. "Okay, yeah... thanks." Wow. Two thank you's in one day without John having to make him say it. And it was sincere.

Yeah, the tables had definitely changed.

* * *

**End Notes:** Yes, I realize Sherlock is OOC here, but 1- the story is an AU of sorts and 2- these circumstances are pretty extreme and I'd like to think even he would change a bit during them.

Hopefully, the next chapter will be up soon. I like these once a week updates and hope I'll be able to stick with them. In the meantime, thoughts and love are definitely appreciated and it's not a lie when I say reviews make me happy.


	3. Hospital Flowers

Note: _Talk about an early update! Even Im surprised at how fast I finished this! Consider it a gift, though. I start rehearsals next week and don't know how much time I'll get to write. Hopefully I can get some done over the weekend, yeah?_

_I feel like a warning is needed for this one, only because the content of the first half could be triggering so: lots of angst, comfort and severe mentions of rape in this chapter. Nothing too graphic but a warning just in case._

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Chapter Summary:_ John attempts to sleep through terrifying memories and Sherlock attempts to help him. Mycroft pays a visit_

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**Chapter Three: Hospital Flowers**

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The cab stopped outside of Baker Street and for the first time ever John was the first one out, no longer able to stand being in the same vicinity as the arrogant, tunnel-visioned, pigheaded detective. He slammed his door and worked his key into the keyhole; he was inside and beginning to storm up the stairs as Sherlock paid the cabbie. He was furious, to say the least, and he was trying to calm down, really he was but... he just couldn't. He could hear the detective making his way slowly up the stairs. If John didn't know Sherlock, he would say that the steps seemed hesitant. But, unfortunately, he did know him which meant he was aware that the man was just being his usual self. On a normal day he could deal with it; he'd become used to Sherlock's odd behavior, complicated train of thought and random mood swings. But today he'd gone too far. Way too far and the result was almost deadly.

John supposed he should just storm upstairs and lock himself in his room for the remainder of the night, catch a bit of sleep before tomorrow came. Instead, though, he took a seat in his chair with a freshly brewed cup of tea and tried to read the book he'd started earlier. Hoping to calm himself down. He heard Sherlock open the closet door, hanging up his coat and scarf before entering the living room and sitting down opposite of John. He sat back, crossed his legs and pulled out his phone, replying to a text he'd received moments ago. "Well, that went rather well," he stated, eyes trained to his phone.

John looked up and rolled his eyes, biting down another flare of frustration and annoyance. "I guess," he responded, his voice tight in an effort not to snap. Sherlock, ever the detective, noticed immediately and looked to John.

"You're angry with me." Not a question. He put his phone away and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward. "What did I do this time?"

Another flare; this one a bit stronger than the last. "What did you-?" John stops, takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm. Really, it's not Sherlock's fault he is so dubious, though for a man who can deduce and entire man's life story in just a few seconds, the fact he is so ignorant about the reasoning behind John's temper really is astounding. John put his head in his hands, scraping roughly at his face before continuing, his voice slightly muffled. "You almost got us killed, Sherlock." John could hear the material of Sherlock's suit jacket move as the detective no doubt shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"I was under the impression you were aware of the risks of chasing a serial killer throughout London." Sherlock stated. Though his voice was calm, collected and very slightly bored, it contained a hint of confusion and coolness only John would be able to detect. He sat back, looking at the impossible man in front of him.

"Does it mean nothing to you that you risked not only our lives, but the lives of multiple innocent bystanders simply because you cannot control yourself?" he asked incredulously. He didn't know why he was so surprised.

This was Sherlock Holmes, afterall. He valued nothing but the thrill cases brought him, the challenge of a good puzzle and, occasionally when it was relevant to him, John. It had happened before, many times but for some reason this time affected John so much more than those past experiences. He supposed that maybe it was because he was the case of Sherlock's distraction but that wasn't his fault. He couldn't help that the detective was so protective of him. Logic told him that. However part of him still felt guilty.

"No one was hurt, John." Sherlock stated, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"But they could have been!" John snapped, standing and walking around his chair, putting his hands on the back of it. "How does that not bother you? It must be nice not to feel guilt. Not to care about such things. Is it? Is it really worth it?"

"I don't understand what brought this on, John. I don't understand what the big deal is, either."

"No. Of course not." John's tone is clipped and does nothing to hide his true feelings. "For a genius you can be so incredibly dim sometimes, you know that?" John pauses for a moment. Sherlock looks as though he's thinking of what to say. He starts to open his mouth, but John beats him to it, finally speaking a thought that had been plaguing his brain for sometime now.

"What I don't understand." he starts slowly, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the detective. "is how you claim to feel such strong emotions toward me, and yet are so indifferent when it comes to others."

It's a low blow and he knows it but he figured now was as good a time as any to get it out. He leaves the room then, knowing he's getting out of control. He needs to calm down, breathe. He needs to get away from Sherlock Holmes. He bolts down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to make his own bloody deductions, and walks down the street, Richie's pub is only about a ten minute walk from here, and John didn't feel like waiting for a cab.

The place is a bit crowded, as is to be expected on a Friday evening. He gets his usual drink before retreating to a table in the back corner away from everyone else. He is no mood to socialize. He wants to calm down and keep his brain from thinking too much on his last statement. He didn't mean it, not really but now that the words had been said he couldn't help but start to analyze them. So far, he didn't like the thoughts it brought forward.

He downs his drink and orders another one. After a few minutes, he senses someone approaching him and looks up. The man is tall and good looking, in a sense, though his features contrasted greatly compared to Sherlock's. John compared everyone to Sherlock these days. John isn't in the mood for a conversation but the stranger seems shy and polite... John doesn't know how to reject him.

So he nods yes, when the man asks if he can sit and they chat for a bit. Every time John's glass was in danger of being empty, the stranger made sure if got filled once more. He takes note that the man himself only has two or three, but doesn't think anything of it. He's lost count of how many drinks he's had when he looks at the time. It's close to two in the morning and he figures he should be getting back to the flat. He's not as drunk as he thought he would be, but he's drunk enough not to trust himself to find his way home. He mentions this to the man, his common sense nonexistent at the moment.

When the man suggested they split a cab so that their fare would be cheaper, John thought it a sensible idea. They managed to get one right away, and John slid in. He had to think for a moment before he was able to state his address, and was too distracted to notice that the stranger didn't repeat it to the cabbie. When they got out, he thought the stairs he was walking up were his own and it wasn't until he got through the door that he realized otherwise. And by then, it was too late.

He didn't have any problem saying no this time, as the stranger's hands, rough and demanding, explored his skin. He kept repeating the word. Over and over again as though the mantra would somehow make him stop. He found a bit of strength and tried to throw the man off him, which only resulted in getting pushed roughly against the wall, his head connecting violently. Immediately, stars filled his eyesight and his head started spinning. He felt the thick substance he knew to be blood start trickling down his forehead slowly.

The man pulled him back into his arms and kissed him harshly. John tensed immediately, not returning the action in the slightest. The next thing he knew he was being pushed onto a bed, his hands being brought up above his head. He felt the uncomfortable tightness of rope being threaded around his wrists and pulled on them, resulting in another sharp blow to the head. "Stay still." the voice, once shy and innocent-like had turned into a cold, menacing growl. Despite his orders, he struggled a bit as the man removed his clothing, biting back a gasp when he was finally naked and the cold air hit his skin.

He closed his eyes tightly as chapped lips were pressed against his once more. He was vaguely aware of being told a string of excuses and lies which he would later come to believe. "I know you don't think you want it, but trust me, you will."

After a bit more struggling resulting in even more abuse, John stopped fighting all together. He forced himself into another scenario, another reality, another dimension. Anything to get him away from the feeling of rough lips trailing down his torso and calloused hands tracing his skin. Anything to make him numb to the burning that coursed through his body. Anything to stop his brain from registering the words being whispered huskily against his ear. Anything to escape. He forced himself to be quiet and still. Forced his thoughts away from the present moment. It worked. For a while. But then the man was done messing around and decided it was time to get to the point.

He prepared John quickly, anxiously and before John's body could adjust to the feeling of such penetration, the fingers were removed. For a second, one split, fraction of a second he thought it might be over. That the man had somehow changed his mind and decided that enough was enough. That budding feeling of hope was shattered only seconds later when an unbearable amount of pain rippled through his entire body, fire taking the place of his blood.

* * *

A scream ripped through John's lips, tore at his throat, demanding to be heard. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, placing his hands gently against John's shoulders. "Shh. John, it's okay. You're okay it's only a nightmare. You're safe now." The words of attempted comfort slipped from his lips instinctively. John bolted upright and awoke, sweaty, panting and confused. Sherlock took a seat on the very edge of the bed and waited for John's senses to kick in. When the doctor finally realized that he was back at Baker Street, he allowed himself to lay back, wincing slightly at the pain caused by the action. His breathing was still heavy and the images were still swirling in and out of his vision but it was okay. He was okay.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. After his phone call with Lestrade he made himself another cup of tea. By the time he reentered the room is was almost eight am and John had drifted off into a restless sort of sleep. Sherlock could only guess what he was dreaming about and his theories proved right about half an hour later when John started getting agitated, twisting slightly and flinching every now and then. It wasn't until another twenty minutes had passed that the screaming started, lasting a good five minutes.

John was looking out the window once more, clearly avoiding Sherlock's gaze. The detective brought a tentative hand to cup John's uninjured cheek and waited a few more minutes. Eventually, John turned his head slowly to look at him, not bothering to try and mask anything within his eyes. Maybe he knew Sherlock would figure it out anyway, and so it was useless to try and hide. Or maybe he was just too exhausted to try. Either way, whatever it was he was seeing swimming within the deep blue eyes prompted Sherlock to lean down and press a light, long kiss to John's temple.

"We're going to get through this, John." he promised, knowing how heavy a statement it was. He let his lips linger for a few more seconds before curling next to John,staring into his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked quietly, catching a tear on with the pad of his thumb. John shook his head slightly and Sherlock nodded. "Okay. That's okay." He pulled the doctor carefully into his chest. John didn't refuse, which Sherlock considered a type of progress. Bringing his fingers to entwine with the hair at the nape of John's neck, he pressed another kiss to the top of John's head. "I'm here." he stated, feeling hot tears beginning to damped his shirt. "Whenever you're ready, I'm right here."

With his free hand, he groped about the bed for the thick duvet. John was shaking in his arms and though he was pretty sure it wasn't from being cold, he figured a blanket couldn't harm them. Once his fingers grasped it, he pulled it up over both him and John. John's breathing had slowed to a somewhat normal pace, but the tears kept coming, soaking Sherlock shirt. Sherlock kept his fingers in John's hair and made noises he believed to be reassuring. He knew that actual words would go unheard at the moment, and therefore wasted no time using them.

He closed his eyes as John's shaking got worse, his occasional tears turning into sobs that he couldn't swallow down any longer. Sherlock held him as close as he could and rocked him slightly, knowing it was better for John to get it all out now, aware that this would most likely not be the last time he would do so. Sherlock is unaware of exactly how much time has passed but eventually, gradually, the sobs die down and John's breathing returns to normal.

When he realizes John has once more fallen asleep, Sherlock allows his eyes to close as well. He knows he won't be getting a good rest, but a few cat naps here and there wouldn't do him any harm. And besides, it's not like there was anything else to do while lying in bed and there was no way he was going to try to untangle himself from John and leave him there alone again. That wasn't even an option. He falls into an alert, dreamless sort of sleep, aware of everything around him. Every time John moves in the slightest, he startles awake to make sure he is okay before once again returning to that weird, in-between stage once more.

When he truly awakes again, the clock above his door frame reads half past noon and Sherlock sighs. Lestrade would be coming by soon, and no doubt Mycroft would be as well. He should get ready for them; prepare for the questions they might have and try to come up with some theories to work on. At the same time, though, John has only gotten about five hours of sleep this morning and Sherlock fears that if he move away from the doctor, the nightmare will come back and wake him once more.

He is halted in his internal battle when he hears a knock at the door downstairs. A few seconds later the door is being opened and a familiar set of footsteps are making their way up the stairs. Sherlock gives it a moment, waiting, and then his door handle is being turned. Slowly the door opens and his brother steps inside the room, not asking nor waiting for Sherlock's permission. Mycroft looks to John and then catches Sherlock's gaze. "Nightmare?" he asks, though it's clear he's not looking for an answer.

Sherlock, however, responds anyway. "Naturally."

Mycroft leans against the doorjamb and looks around for a moment before allowing his eyes to fall back to Sherlock once more. "I've had the security footage from the pub and surrounding areas pulled and my people have been going through them for the past few hours. It's complicated, to say the least, as we don't know what time Doctor Watson arrived at or left the pub and the streets are insanely crowded, but we're getting there."

"Eleven." Sherlock stated softly, to keep John from waking.

"Excuse me?"

"John left the flat at around eleven. We returned after a case at ten thirty seven and John made a cup of tea, started reading a book and attempted to make clear the reasons he was furious with me. I didn't understand, which made his temper even higher and he stormed out, presumably to calm down. He didn't take a cab; I watched him from the window. Had his fists tight against his sides all the way up until he rounded the corner. He would have left the pub somewhere between one and two, fighting or not, he doesn't like to stay out that late for fear it will worry me."

Mycroft stared at him for a moment before shooting off a text to one of his men with the time frame, certain it would help their research go a lot faster. The faster it went, the sooner the bastard was caught and the one thing he and his brother were agreeing on for the first time in years was that that was for the better.

"Anything else you might know?" Mycroft asked conversationally; code for _Do you suspect anyone in particular?_ Sherlock shook his head, then thought for a second.

"Talk to Richie, the bartender. I called him last night and he said he saw John leave with someone. I was a bit too preoccupied to bother asking who." again, Sherlock stopped to think. He didn't know how he should proceed. A thought sparked into his head a he figured it was better than nothing. Lestrade will be coming over shortly. He's agreed to take on the case. You are more then welcome to stay and chat about theories. I would join you but I'm a bit busy..."

An unusual look crossed Mycroft's face. "You mean I will finally get to meet the man who has somehow put up with you for five years? Oh, how I'd love to do that. We should have great fun exchanging stories..." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, whatever, just don't scare him off. He's quite useful occasionally" he glances at the clock once more. "He should be here in no more than a half an hour. Feel free to make yourself at home. You know where the tea is, I presume. And I'm fairly sure you remember how to make it on your own do you not?" He waves a hand dismissively toward the door Mycroft gives him a signature look before exiting the room.

It was weird, sort of getting along with Mycroft, but by an unspoken mutual agreement, they had allowed the petty feud of theirs to come to a halt long enough to solve this case. Sherlock would be sure to make up for the domesticity of it all when everything was back to normal again.

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_A/N: *wipes brow* Whew! Wow! Okay, that was a LOT harder to write than the other ones, but this story is still pretty much writing itself at the moment. I'm still accepting little prompts to help the story along, so feel free to tell me what you wanna see and the like and I'll try to incorporate it. I have no idea how long this story is going to be, so we'll wait and see, yeah?_

_Oh, also, someone left a really lovely review on the lst chapter. You left it as a guest, so I can't thank you personally so I'm doing it here to let you know that I saw it and to thank you for it because it really made my day and sort of motivated me to get this finished today so thank you!_


	4. Dreams and Disasters

_Note: _What's this? Another update? Why indeed it is! This story is just writing itself at the moment and I LOVE IT! Also, Im loving the responses Im getting from you guys! It motivates me to keep writing. Um.. this chapter is a bit slow and may seem a bit irrelevant, actually, but I swear it's necessary for future chapters and stuff so bear with me.

Warning: LOADS of angst in this one (:

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_Summary: _John remembers, Sherlock blames himself and Mycroft and Lestrade prove themselves... not useless

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**Chapter Four: Dreams And Disasters**

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When John awoke, the first thing he noticed was the pain in his head. It was loud and angry and had made its home at a spot just behind his eyes. The bed beneath him was one he was not familiar with and a momentary bubble of panic rose from his chest and into his throat as he tried to figure out where he was. Upon inhaling, his frantic thoughts froze. He knew that scent; it was one he smelled on a daily basis. One of tea, chemicals and just the slightest hint of cigarettes. It was familiar. It was safe. It was Sherlock.

Sherlock?

He turned and, sure enough, the detective in question was lying on his back next to John. His hands were behind his head and his eyes were closed, but it was obvious that he was awake. John tried to think of a good reason as to how he'd gotten in Sherlock's bed but really the only thing he could focus on was the drum line in his head, and trying to come up with any type of explanation only worsened the pain.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea coursed through him so fast he only just had enough time to react. He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up into the wastebasket that was conveniently place beside the nightstand there. The taste of alcohol burned his mouth and as a passing thought, John observed that yes, the scotch tasted much better going down than it did coming back up. His stomach twisted painfully again but this time nothing came. Panting, he reached for a tissue to wipe his mouth and threw it into the wastebasket as well, lying back down again.

He hadn't even noticed Sherlock leave the room until the man entered again. He set a glass of water on the nightstand and handed John a few tablets the doctor recognized immediately as Tylenol. Sitting up, John took them gratefully. He chased them down with a sip or two of the cool water and looked up to thank Sherlock before seeing the detective had once again disappeared. John sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes, he listened to Sherlock shuffling about inside the bathroom, turning on the tap for a few seconds before switching it off again.

He didn't remember falling asleep, and wondered what time it was.

Again, his stomach clenched and again, nothing came. He hoped the painkillers would take effect soon because his head was killing him. He opened his eyes when he heard movement near him and watched Sherlock as he silently moved a chair from the foot of the bed next to him and place a cool washcloth on his forehead. "How are you feeling?" the detective asked, taking a seat.

John chuckled hollowly, "Like death... God, how much did I drink last night?" it was a rhetorical question and they both knew it. John was surprised Sherlock didn't answer, though. The man probably could have deduced exactly what he'd drank last night and how much. Well, judging by your current state, the pain of your headache - which is what, exactly? An eight, nine, at best? Not to mention how dilated your pupils are...

"John, how much exactly do you remember from last night?" Oh, God, he was supposed to do this right now? He'd just woken up nursing a serious hangover and now he was expected to search through his muddled memory and recall it? He almost brushed the question off, waved it away with an I'm not sure, ask me later when I'm awake. Or something of the like but something in Sherlock's voice made him actually try to remember. It was soft, hesitant. John remembered fighting with the detective for a bit before leaving, but that wasn't the reason behind his hesitance; John could tell. He sat back, something making it impossible for him to look into Sherlock's eyes at the moment.

"Um, we got back from the case. Fought for a bit. I left and went to Richie's. Had a few drinks." John paused, closing his eyes. He strained to look through the haze of blurry memories. Tried to put them in order and make them make sense but... they didn't. They didn't make sense. Not one of them. Why had he been talking to someone when he'd went with the opposite intention? Surely he'd talked to other people last night, too and he just wasn't remembering? "Spoke to a few people. Got a cab and came home." But that's where it got murky.

Because John didn't remember coming home. Sherlock would have been awake when he came home. They would have had mindless small talk before John made a cup of tea to have something other that scotch in his system and Sherlock would have resumed playing his violin. Then they'd go to sleep. Like always. But that's not what happened. He remembered telling the cabbie his address, but never returning to Baker Street. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with an explanation. Sherlock was silent, letting him take his time to do so.

And then everything hit him so fast, his breath was actually stolen from him for a moment. No. Shook his head furiously, the washcloth sliding off as he did so. No, that's not possible. He remembered walking stairs. The pain of being pushed into the wall. The feel of blood trickling down his face. No. He looked to Sherlock helplessly, begging the detective to tell him it wasn't true. But looking at him only confirmed his fears. He didn't have time to pick apart the detective's expression. To really notice the pain behind his eyes and the mixed sympathy and anger that laced his face. As soon as his fears were confirmed, his stomach twisted again and he lurched himself over the bed once more, regretting the water and Tylenol that his stomach had not yet digested.

He felt Sherlock's hand come to rub his back soothingly and flinched violently, the contact only sparking more memories. Unfamiliar, evil hands roaming everywhere they could touch; caressing his skin and running through his hair. Lips being pushed roughly against his own. As he remembered the smell of him, the taste of his lips his stomach lurched again and John wondered just how much he'd really consumed last night and how much was still inside.

John closed his eyes, feeling hot tears running down his cheeks. His breathing was staggered and shallow and his hand was clutching the nightstand tightly for some type of support. Some type of hold to reality. He kept shaking his head, No. No it's impossible. There's no way... he repeated the same words like a mantra in his mind, as though saying them would make them true and erase the past few hours from his life.

His stomach was now completely emptied but he didn't move, couldn't bring himself to move. Again, he felt Sherlock's hands on him and this time told himself that it was okay. It was Sherlock. Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was good. Sherlock was safe. He allowed himself to be sat back up in the bed. Sherlock moved to sit on the edge of the bed and took John carefully into his arms, rocking him slightly "It's going to be okay, John. It'll all be okay. You'll get through this; I know you will. I'll help you okay? You are not going to be alone."

Sherlock sounded... God, John couldn't even place it. It was not Sherlock, though and that's what worried him. Scared him. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He was always the one reassuring Sherlock and now it was the other way around? What else had changed these past few hours?

He felt Sherlock press a light kiss into his hair and finally relaxed, falling into Sherlock's arms. He didn't have the strength to deal with any of this right now. He had only been up for less than an hour and was already exhausted again. His shoulder hurt. His chest stung and his headache had worsened from the breakdown. His body was tired but his mind was racing. He didn't want to remember anything that had happened, and was glad that, upon searching his memory lightly again, the details and specifics from last night seemed to have buried themselves again. He wouldn't be digging them up anytime soon.

He might not be able to forget exactly what happened, but forgetting most of it was way better than nothing.

Soon enough, he found himself once more drifting off to sleep. Emotional breakdowns took a lot out of a person, apparently. He allowed the sleep, welcomed it, hoping to put off facing reality for a bit longer. When he awoke later, they could continue life normally and pretend nothing had happened. Sherlock did it often enough. Now it was his turn.

* * *

Sherlock left John tucked into the bed once more and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He entered the living room his brother and Lestrade were still occupying and took a seat on the edge of the couch putting his head in his hands and running his fingers repeatedly through his hair. How was it possible for him to be this tired? He could survive on days on during cases without sleep and here after just a few hours his body needed rest. Then again, he reminded himself, never before had he been so directly involved with a case.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, not caring whether or not the men before him could tell that he'd been crying only moments earlier. He reserved the right for a few breakdowns at the moment, and dammit if seeing John so broken didn't constitute as a good enough reason for one, he didn't know what did. Maybe asking him hadn't been the best idea... but it was too late to change it, now. And watching John as he put together the pieces again, reliving the memories...

There had been so much pain, so much fear. And even more than that was the disbelief. John's refusal to believe that such a thing could have happened was the worst. John didn't deserve this- not at all. He was too good a man to be repaid with this kind of cruelty and Sherlock was pissed off that, of all the people in that fucking bar last night, it had to have been John that was targeted and victimized.

And he couldn't help but feel as though it had been his own fault in a way. He could have gone after John as he raced down the steps; kept him from going out last night. He was the reason they had been fighting last night. Maybe if he'd have seen what it was he had done wrong, he could have apologized and John wouldn't have stormed off. If he hadn't set John off in the first place earlier that night, they wouldn't have gotten in the fight when they got home, Sherlock wouldn't have been so ignorant as to what his mistake had been and they would have never started fighting in the first place.

And then they could have stopped by Angelo's for a quick meal in celebration of closing the case a returned home, together. John would sip tea while updating his damned blog and Sherlock would have played his violin. Perhaps he even would have played Mozart or Beethoven. One of John's favorites. Just because he could. And then they would fall to sleep together and that would be it. Normal. Sherlock never thought he'd be wishing for something normal and regular to happen, but God he would prefer it much more over what had happened instead.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighted heavily. Turning to finally address the other men in the room. "Do we have any information yet?" he didn't bother with annoyance or his usual snarky remarks. He was too tired to fight right now.

"We pulled the security footage from the bar," Mycroft started, setting down his tea. "The pub was too crowded inside to really get a look at who he'd been chatting with, and the outside footage only showed us the back of his head as they got into the cab." He sounded regretful and almost as tired as Sherlock felt.

"And the cab number? Did you at least get a glance at that?" Sherlock was anxious, but didn't care that he was letting it show. If there was something, anything that would give them more than what they already knew... The cabbie could tell them where they'd gone. They could go to the scene, find out who lived there and then the bastard would be caught. There's no way he would be able to get away.

"The number was hidden as well, but there are a few companies that run in London, but only a handful of cars that scout this area. We're pulling in everyone who'd been working last night and interviewing them." Sherlock nodded and looked to Lestrade for an update on his part.

The Detective Inspector cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "I called into the hospital and checked the progress of the kit... turns out there are quite a few, actually that need to be tested and John's was at the bottom of the list... It took quite a bit of convincing but I got them to move it to the top; we should have the results in a few hours."

"You're sure your team examined the tapes thoroughly?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. They could have missed something- idiots always did. "From the time the attacker entered the pub?" He found it impossible to believe that this man had been able to avoid all cameras throughout the entire night. There had to be something... a turn of the head, angled just in view of one of the cameras... something.

"I thought so too, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, having read his thoughts, "I took a look myself when I heard there was nothing, but they were right. Not one second's glimpse of his face. You're welcome to take a look yourself if you'd like. I can have Anthea bring them over in a half hour's time-"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "That won't be necessary." He didn't want to watch the tapes. Didn't want to watch John unknowingly make his way to what would turn out to be the most dangerous trap yet. He couldn't do it.

Everything seemed to be going well so far. Security tapes had been pulled and examined, interviews were taking place, DNA and the like was being tested, Mycroft and Lestrade were getting along... There was nothing else for Sherlock to do right now but wait. He hated waiting; wasting time when there were plenty of other things that could be getting done but in this case, he supposed, there was nothing.

He nodded absently to himself and stood, Mycroft and Lestrade doing the same. "If anything else comes up, I'll be called." he stated, though it was unnecessary. Both men nodded.

"You will, undoubtedly be the first." Mycroft responded, donning his coat and grabbing his umbrella that had been sitting against the doorjamb.

"Good. Okay, well I'm going to assume that you two exchanged numbers. Lestrade, I'm sure your division is drowning in work and you no doubt have paperwork to compete from last night's case. I shouldn't keep you from that any longer. Lord only knows what your idiotic monkeys are doing without you there to supervise... Mycroft. The government can't run itself, now can it?"

Both men smirked slightly at Sherlock's words, no doubt glad to have some sense of normalcy at the moment, before saying parting words and descending the stairs to go back to their everyday lives. Oh, how Sherlock envied them for it.

He stood in the center of the flat for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself. Part of him supposed he could start playing his violin; give the illusion that everything within the flat was normal, but he wasn't in the mood for music. After a moment more of internal debate, he headed toward the bedroom once more, slipping under the covers and next to John. It would be some time before everything on Baker Street was 'normal' again.

* * *

_Note: _ So, this was a bit shorter than the rest but like I said it's necessary. Um... Reviews are lovely, as always. Another reminder that Im not an expert in any of this is needed, I guess and also a reminder that it's a self edited.

Also, in case you haven't caught on, all chapter titles are names of Owl City songs or lyrics from a song, and I encourage you to look them up because they're awesome so.. yeah.

Oh, yeah! Also, if you wanna keep up with updates on this story, and my other works as well, feel free to go check out my fanfiction blog for it over on tumblr as thescienceofwritingfanfiction so look me up!


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